


Red Shirts

by owlbsurfinbird



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Family, Friendship, Gen, Memorials, Star Trek: TOS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 21:27:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3462644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlbsurfinbird/pseuds/owlbsurfinbird





	Red Shirts

His mobile on the nightstand rings at an ungodly hour, setting his heart pounding for the second time in one night—Laura got a shout earlier. And it's Lyn and for an instant, hearing her in the wee hours, his heart stops and then breaks as he hears tears roughen her voice. _Dear God_ —he holds his breath.

And then she reassures him. Everything's fine—except. And she tells him. Upset—embarrassed, too—saying it shouldn't have affected her. Apologizing now for calling. Not like she knew the man personally, though he was in their house every week. Maybe it brought back too many memories. Sitting in front of the telly with her mum, Mark, and me. Knowing every bloody episode by heart—saw them often enough. And then the movies.

 _It's too damn early for this._ With fatigue and the resignation of age, he says quietly, "Everyone dies, pet." Which is the wrong thing to say under the circumstances to his little girl who is inexplicably grieving the death of a man who wore silicone ears.

"That's it exactly, Dad. Everyone. Mum. You."

He wants to seem wise, though he has no idea what has brought this on. Sudden inspiration, trying to lighten her spirits with something they used to share. "We're all wearing red shirts, pet. Nothing we can do about that."

And then she's reminding him of their favorite episodes. Their call ends on a higher note, but he's still left with this heavy sensation of emptiness gnawing at his gut as if her grief was contagious somehow.

He goes into the kitchen, reheats the hours old coffee Laura made for herself before she left. The house is silent, empty. He remembers rushing home after work to a house filled with the sounds of Val cajoling the Mark to empty the bin, Lyn to set the table—everyone hurrying to watch telly after dinner. It was one program they could all agree on. Often as not he was late getting home—Morse didn't understand the dynamics of a modern family. "Television, Lewis? What familial emotional connection can be developed by watching ethereal images projected on a screen?"

He hadn't answered then. Still didn't know now, really. Except that he remembered Lyn snuggling close to him on the couch and saying she wanted to be like Nurse Chapel. Mark explaining why there were no sounds in outer space. And Val saying she felt sorry for the blokes in red shirts who wouldn't last till the end of the episode.

Oh.

_Oh._

He heads into the nick early, his coffee forgotten. He needs to tell Laura. Needs to tell—someone. Do they know? Have they heard? And then he reins himself in. Who is going to understand this sudden sense of tangible loss? Because this life, right now, this is the only episode. This is it. No repeats. He is a red shirt. They are all wearing red shirts.

He hurries down the hall, urgently glancing into offices. Gurdip—not at his desk. Innocent—on the phone already and looking irritated. Lizzie—on the shout with Laura. 

_Well, where's—_

And there he is. Coming to an abrupt halt in the corridor. He scans Robbie as if he's reading a report, probably taking in the hurried dress, the agitation. The tinge of sadness, but not real grief.

Hathaway's long face—in the midst of a concerned frown—melts to one of compassion and understanding. _Of course he's heard. Twitter, probably._ The slightest smile curls the corner of his mouth, though, as if he's grateful that Robbie is there. As if he'd been waiting for him. He raises an eyebrow. Just one.

It's as if gravity is lessened here, at this moment, standing in the corridor of the nick, now that James is here to commiserate.

For a moment, Robbie imagines himself in command gold and his former sergeant as Spock—always at his side in science blue. The two of them taking on the galaxy, seeking new life and new civilizations. Boldly going where no man—no one—has gone before. Not red shirts as long as they are together.

James squares his shoulders, drawing himself up, as if making a pronouncement. " 'Of all the souls that I met on my travels, his was the most… human.' Present company excepted, of course."

 _Captain. Sir._ Even when he doesn't say it, it's there.

Robbie holds his gaze and reaches out, his hand clasping James' shoulder. "I have been, and always shall be, your friend."

And James favors him with that special smile that seems reserved for him. "I have _**The Wrath of Khan**_ on DVD."

"Bring it to our place, James. We'll order pizza and watch it together. Have a proper send off."

"To boldly go." The smile warms and brightens.

Robbie nods, thinking of episodes ending and red shirts and how many burdens this man has lessened by simply being at his side to share them. "Right, then. Let's see what's out there. '…Second star to the right — and straight on 'til morning.' "


End file.
